by Jill Jones
Bloodline
Jill Jones
Copyright
Diversion Books
A Division of Diversion Publishing Corp.
443 Park Avenue South, Suite 1008
New York, NY 10016
www.DiversionBooks.com
Copyright © 2000 by Jill Jones
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
For more information, email [email protected]
First Diversion Books edition November 2014
ISBN: 978-1-62681-525-4
More from Jill Jones
Emily’s Secret
My Lady Caroline
The Scottish Rose
A Scent of Magic
Circle of the Lily
The Island
Bloodline
Remember Your Lies
Every Move You Make
Beneath the Raven’s Moon
Shadow Haven
This is a work of fiction. Only the characters of J.K. Stephen, Prince Albert Victor Edward “Eddy” (the Duke of Clarence), Dr. William Gull, and members of the royal family surrounding Queen Victoria are historical; all other characters herein are fictitious, and any resemblance they may bear to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental. The events described herein concerning the murders committed by the perpetrator known as Jack the Ripper are historically accurate as best as can be determined from in-depth research. All other events are entirely fictional.
Acknowledgments
I wish to thank to Mr. Peter Blau for sharing his Sherlockian expertise, and Special Agent Marie Dyson, profiler with the Critical Incident Response Group Unit, a division of the FBI’s National Center for the Evaluation of Violent Crime at Quantico, Virginia, for lending authenticity to this tale. I am also indebted to David Abrahamsen, M.D., F.A.C.Pn., author of “Murder and Madness, The Secret Life of Jack the Ripper.” Dr. Abrahamsen’s insight into both the crimes and the minds of the criminals who committed them was critical to the development of this story.
Thanks to Patricia McLaughlin for helping me locate sites for the book in and around Washington, DC, and to my critique partners for helping work out the bugs.
I wish to thank my daughter, Brooke Cundiff, for her special research into the old Ripper murders that brought exciting new ideas to the story, and my husband, Jerry, for his creative support and all the wonderful meals.
“…this new strange year of three eights that could never be written again…”
Her Royal Highness, Queen Victoria
“Though this be madness, yet there is method in’t.”
William Shakespeare
Hamlet, 1.2
“In famous London City, in eighteen eighty-eight,
Four beastly cruel murders have been done…
Some say it was old Nick himself,
Or else a Russiona Jew.
Some say it was a ‘cannibal’ from the
Isle of Kickaiboo.
Some say it must be Bashi-Bazouks,
Or else it’s the Chinese
Come over to Whitechapel to commit
Such crimes as these.”
From the tabloid press in the autumn of 1888.
Author’s note: Excerpts of poems written by J.K. Stephen are indicated by an asterisk (*). All other material attributed to him, including the diary, is fictional. The notes written by the original Ripper and sent to London newspapers are historical.
Prologue
The book was old. Very old. And very secret. So secret, in fact, no one but himself knew of its existence. Others had seen it, but they were either dead now, or had forgotten, attaching no importance to it when it was first unearthed from an old chest in the attic of his family’s home. He alone knew the precious secrets it contained, written in fading ink upon yellowed pages. Secrets of love and betrayal and death. Secrets that reached past his mind and flowed into his soul, filling him with a painful joy and an apprehension of his yet unfulfilled destiny.
One day, he would effect that destiny. One day, he would consummate that painful joy. One day…
Chapter One
Victoria Thomas stared into the eyes of the killer and thought she might be sick. She gripped the railing that stood between them and kept her eyes locked on his, determined not to blink, refusing to let him see her fear.
Men like this lived to see the fear in the eyes of their victims. It empowered them to paralyze their prey with terror. It made them potent again, and filled them with desire.
For them, instilling fear was foreplay to the bloodlust.
Victoria straightened, mustering control, although a sheen of cold sweat slickened her skin, and she had to fight to keep her breathing even. His eyes filled with hatred when she did not succumb to the terror. Hatred, and rage. Clearly, he wanted to kill her, as he had the others. Would kill her, given the chance.
But she would not become his victim.
And neither, she vowed, would anyone else.
She summoned a strong voice and turned her attention to the judge who had requested her testimony in this, the penalty phase of the killer’s trial.
“Your honor, William Coleman killed five young women in cold blood. He planned their deaths, he stalked them, and he took pleasure in watching them die slowly and painfully.” She shuddered involuntarily. Coleman was possibly the cruelest killer she had ever encountered. He had cut the tongues from his victims so they could not cry out, then slowly and methodically dismembered them while they were alive. If she never caught another killer, she would be satisfied that at least she had taken this man out. And her testimony now was critical to keeping him out. He mustn’t ever be allowed in society again. If she had her way, he would die. She forced herself to continue, trying to appear calm, keeping her testimony professional and clinical.
“William Coleman must never walk the streets again. He is not insane, for he knew full well what he was doing at the time, and that it was wrong. But he is psychopathic, and in my opinion, he can never be rehabilitated.”
“Could you explain further, Ms. Thomas?” the judge asked.
Victoria knew this particular judge was a proponent of capital punishment, and that he was asking her to give the jury a strong reason to return the death penalty. She was with the judge. She must make them understand that the death penalty was the only way to guarantee he would never kill again. “Yes, your honor.” She turned to face the jury. “A killer like William Coleman is driven by a fantasy that can never be fulfilled. With each murder, he is satisfied for a while, but the fulfillment does not last, and he is driven to kill again. His need to kill is so deeply embedded in his psyche that it becomes the driving force of his life. He can’t not kill. If he were ever paroled, he would kill again and again until he was caught.”
Victoria saw the horror on the faces of the jury and believed she was succeeding in convincing them. Thank God. Sending men like Coleman to death row was the one reward that made her job bearable. These bastards deserved to die. Unfortunately, not all of her cases ended so satisfactorily. Some killers not only escaped capital punishment but eventually managed to be paroled. She had put a few such killers behind bars and had been incensed to learn of their release. Outraged that the system would return them to society where they would likely kill again. And more than a little worried that they might seek revenge against her.
She tried not to think about that. It was part of the job, came with the territory. She couldn’t let fear stand in her way.
The judge’s
voice broke into her thoughts. “Could you please be more specific, Ms. Thomas?” he prodded.
Victoria drew in a deep breath and exhaled heavily. She appreciated that the judge was pushing her to convince the jurors they had no choice but to demand William Coleman’s death, but she was emotionally exhausted from this case, and the judge’s question pushed her to the edge of her endurance.
“Other than the fact that he bragged about what he had done and told me he would kill more women when he got out of jail,” she said, pausing to let her words sink in, “I could draw no other conclusion after delving into Mr. Coleman’s psychological background. He was raised by his older sister, whom he claims badly mistreated him and whom he came to hate, although after his divorce, he moved back in with her. He told me did that because he had decided to kill her, saying he wanted to ‘tear her limb from limb.’ But the sister died of natural causes soon after, leaving him frustrated in his intent and unable to fulfill his fantasy of killing her.
“His hatred of her grew, intensified by his perception that somehow she had died on purpose to thwart him. He had to punish her. But she wasn’t available, so he abducted young women who looked much like his sister had when he was a teenager and under her domination. He took a job as the high school custodian, chose his victims carefully from among the student population he saw every day, and murdered them instead. Because he never killed the true object of his hatred, he never succeeded in fulfilling his fantasy. He never will. But he will keep trying. As you heard in earlier testimony, after we caught him, we found a list of future prospects. There were over twenty names on it. If he is not permanently removed from society, it is probable that he’ll return to the area and pick up where he left off, and the lives of those women who were on his list would be seriously at risk.”
It took the jury only a short while to decide the fate of the murderer, and when the foreman read their vote for the death penalty, a thunder of applause and cheers resounded through the tense courtroom. The judge banged his gavel, shouting for order, only adding to the pandemonium. But the relief in the room was palpable. With this man behind bars, these people could feel safe once again in their quiet community.
How could anyone ever feel safe? she wondered as she left the courtroom. This man was just one among many, a growing brotherhood of sick, ruthless killers who preyed primarily on women. Some were not just killers. Some, like William Coleman, were butchers, who took pleasure in defiling female flesh with a knife. What kind of society are we, she thought, to have created such monsters?
And what would it take to stop them?
Stopping them was her job, and Victoria worked hard at it. She knew she had the reputation of being among the best in the business. In addition to her extensive knowledge of the workings of the criminal mind and her years of experience in homicide investigation, Victoria relied on her keen intuition as well to help in her quest. It had been her intuition that led to the arrest of William Coleman.
While other profilers were convinced the killer was a much younger man—most serial killers are in their twenties—she’d had a gut feeling this murderer was much older. Because the victims had all been students at the same high school, the investigation had centered around the male students and younger faculty members. On a hunch, Victoria had insisted that the police put a tail on older faculty members…and the custodian.
They were watching him when he stopped and offered a ride to the girl who could have become victim number six. A dark-haired girl who looked very much like the other victims. The police had followed his car to the house once inhabited by his sister and rescued the girl, who was struggling against him as he led her from the garage to the house. Her hunch had saved the girl’s life. And caught the killer.
Victoria hurried out of the courtroom, eager to put the case behind her. She stepped out of the gloomy building into the bright October sun, feeling as if an enormous burden had been lifted from her shoulders. She was exhausted from this lengthy case and in need of some time off. But she sighed and ran her hand through her hair, thinking of all the other cases that were pending and in need of her attention. She was tired, but she could never rest until she had given all she had toward stopping these killers. For the victims. For their families.
Most of all, for her sister, Meghan, who had not deserved to die at the hands of such a killer, but had. A killer who had never been found. Looking into the eyes of William Coleman during this trial and hearing the detailed testimony of his butchery had brought back all the dark, sickening memories of Meghan’s murder. Trials such as this always brought back the horror of her sister’s death and renewed the anguish and grief she had struggled to bury over the past seven years. Her throat tightened, and she blinked away unbidden tears. Taking a deep breath, she looked out into the sunshine and forced those memories back into the nether reaches of her mind, where they hid but never quite went away.
Victoria spotted the vehicle that awaited her and dodged shouting reporters and militant photographers as she dashed toward it. A man opened the door for her, and she slid into the back seat and the anonymity that she craved.
“You look like hell.” Her boss and mentor, Mike Mosier, handed her a soft drink as the driver swerved away from the curb and maneuvered through the heavy traffic.
“Thanks a lot.” She sipped the cold sweetness through a straw and felt the sting of the carbonation against her dry throat.
“Bad, huh?”
Victoria leaned her head back against the seat and closed her eyes. “The pits,” she murmured, thinking it a gross understatement. “At least with the death sentence, he’s not going anywhere anytime soon.”
“You did a great job on this case, Victoria.”
“Thanks,” was her only reply. She appreciated Mike’s compliment, but she wasn’t in the mood for small talk. She was just glad the whole thing was behind her. She hated having to testify. It always made her feel naked and vulnerable. She was a very private person, and she did not like the publicity that inevitably accompanied her appearance at these sensational trials. She endured it only because she believed that in the long run, her work made a difference. Intellectually, she knew she could never rid the world of the monsters, but emotionally, she felt she had to try. For every such sicko she helped put behind bars, women’s lives would be saved, women who would never even know they might have become his victims. She couldn’t bring Meghan back, but she had vowed she would do everything in her power to prevent the senseless deaths of others. Exhaustion was a small price to pay.
“You need a vacation.” Mosier’s voice broke into her thoughts.
“What are you, a mind reader?”
“It doesn’t take a psychic to know you’re pushing it too hard, Victoria.”
Victoria sighed. Yes, she’d been pushing it hard. And yes, she needed a vacation. But she wasn’t taking one. “Can it, Mosier. You know that’s not an option. There’s just too much…”
“You’re no good to us if your brain’s fried and you can’t keep your eyes open.”
Her brain did feel as if it were fried, scrambled as well. Her eyes burned behind closed lids. Her muscles were stiff with tension, and a headache threatened at her temples. The idea of a vacation beckoned her seductively even as she discounted the possibility. “Mike, I can’t. You know all that I have on my plate right now.”
“You’ve had too much on your plate for months. You’re going to get sick if you don’t slow down. Take a couple of weeks to decompress from this thing.”
“A couple of weeks!” Victoria couldn’t imagine being away that long. Her desk would be piled high. But Mike was adamant.
“The world isn’t going to stop if you take some time off, Victoria. Nothing is so pressing at the moment that it can’t wait, or that the rest of us can’t cover it. Take a vacation.”
“But…”
The car turned onto I-95 and headed toward the FBI Academy at Quantico that was home to the National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime, NCAVC,
the division for which they both worked. With exaggerated authority, her boss flipped out his badge. “That’s an order.”
Later that evening, Victoria sipped a chilled Sauvignon blanc and checked her watch, annoyed. She could count on Trey for a lot of things. Unfortunately, being late was one of them.
But tonight it didn’t really matter, she reminded herself, trying to relax. She was in no hurry, and this was one of her favorite restaurants. There was something comforting in the hum of dinner conversations as they rose and fell around the notes of the music emanating from a baby grand at the back of the room. The soothing ambience of the rose-colored tablecloths and soft candlelight combined with the wine to at last take the edge off the day.
Beneath the table, Victoria slipped one shoe off and wiggled her toes. She was in the process of repeating the maneuver with the other tired foot when she looked up and saw Trey’s handsome face break into a wide smile when he spotted her from the hostess stand. She waved, and he headed in her direction.
“It’s about time,” she chided when he reached the table. She took his hand and raised her cheek to his brotherly kiss. He wasn’t really her brother, but she thought of him as one. She and Meghan and Trey had grown up together, their families being close friends, and he’d always been “her little brother.”
“Bad traffic,” he replied, handing her a single, long-stemmed, peach-colored rose. “Forgive me?”
“How come you have to be so damned charming?”
He took the seat across from her and signaled the waiter for a drink. “The charm is inbred, don’t-you-know.”
She laughed with him, but sardonically, remembering the strict rules of their upbringing, the discipline they had endured as children growing up in high society families. Because of who they were, because of their bloodline and heritage, more would always be expected of them than the average person, Victoria’s mother had reminded her two daughters, ad nauseum.
